Fletcher Falcone sat in his office, cursing as he counted the hundred thousand dollars he had to fork over to Tony Broutafachi’s goon who would arrive any second. The money wasn’t a problem. Handing it over before collecting his Radford probate money was the problem. But if he didn’t hand it over, Broutafachi’s hitman, a guy named Drago, would plant a bullet in his knee … or worse.
Falcone’s phone rang and he picked up.
“Mr. Falcone?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Bob Darnell.”
Falcone didn’t recognize the name.
“I’m a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Our group advises the Iraqi military here in Baghdad.”
Why’s a lieutenant calling me from Baghdad? he wondered. “Did you know Rick Radford, Leland Radford’s son?”
“Yes, sir. We were very good buddies.”
“Rick was a wonderful young man, Lieutenant, and a terrific son. But perhaps we could talk tomorrow. You see, I’m very busy preparing for Rick’s father’s probate case right now.”
“That’s why I called, sir.”
“The probate?”
“Yes.”
Falcone wondered what he meant.
“I figured you should know that Rick married an Iraqi woman here.”
Falcone’s eyes went out of focus.
“What? Rick marr – ?”
“ – yes, sir. Her name is Nafeesa Hakim. Rick was planning to tell his father about her, but the roadside bomb … killed him.”
“Rick Radford has a wife, a widow?”
“Yes, sir. I just found out yesterday.”
Falcone felt like he’d swallowed ice, as he realized the woman might have a claim to Leland Radford’s fortune.
“Where is this Nas …?”
“Nafeesa Hakim. Actually, she flew out of Baghdad and will be landing at Louisville International Airport this evening. Then she’s coming to show you her marriage certificate.”
“Does she speak English?”
“Her English is quite good.”
Falcone swallowed. “Does she have an attorney?”
“No, sir. She’s alone and coming to your office.”